What we did in Operation Sealion
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: March 1941, in a different universe. The German invasion of Britain has been defeated. Prisoners-of-war taken by the Germans during five months of fighting are being liberated and debriefed. Sergeant Wilson,A, tells the story to Army Intelligence...
1. Debriefing

**After the Eagle landed: a "Dad's Army" what-if?**

_**Prologue:- **_

As a history grad (well, I minored in History) and a student of the dark days of 1939-45, from a family that perhaps lost more than its fair share of sons in WW2, I have to look on the phenomena that was the Local Defence Volunteers with a mixture of bewilderment, astonishment, abashment and pride.

Bewilderment and astonishment that such a thing could have got off the ground; that so many men of non-combatant age who could so easily have sat it out enlisted and served, for no pay and six years of gruelling hard grind on top of their daily work; that it caught the public imagination the way it did; and that they would almost certainly have fought had they been called upon to do so, these grandfathers and schoolboys, the men graded as unfit for regular service, the veterans of older British wars who had already done their bit on battlefields and campaigns around the world.

Would they have made a difference if the Germans had succeeded in invading us in 1940? Well, they set an example. The Germans, in 1944 and 1945, expressly used the Home Guard as a model when creating their equivalent, the Volkssturm. Their old men and boys went into the front lines and in many places slowed, even temporarily halted, the Allied attacks, and while some cracked, others fought to the last as Russian and American tanks rolled over them in a hopeless war they could never hope to win. They too were fighting for their homes and their families in their local areas – just as the men of the Home Guard would surely have done in the latter part of 1940. This is a tribute story based on the known canon of "Dad's Army".

_**March, 1941. Lympne Army Camp, Kent, England.**_

Colonel Rogerson of Army Intelligence looked out of the window and frowned. Spring blossom was early this year. According to folklore, that meant a shirts-off summer followed by a bad winter. He fervently hoped the farmers could restore their fields and orchards and salvage what they could after he ravages of the previous autumn and winter. Otherwise, with Jerry stepping up the U-boat offensives, it meant a hungry winter for everybody. His eye passed over his personal car, a captured Jerry kugelblitz repainted in Army green and given British serial numbers. It drove like a bucket on wheels and the engine was in the boot, but he was grimly pleased that Jerry had left so much serviceable stuff behind after the surrender. _It went some way towards making up for what we left behind at Dunkirk last summer. _

"Send the next one in, please, mr Bentine." he requested. Lieutenant Bentine, despite his dago ancestry – Peru, wasn't it? – was a local Folkestone lad who'd proven himself in the Home Guard, denied service in the RAF because of his non-British father1**(1) **Quirky sense of humour, but he'd more than proven his loyalty. Damn brave chap, for a half-Spaniard, or whatever he was.

"Here's the file, sir" said Lieutenant Green, the third member of the debriefing tribunal. "Sergeant Wilson, A, of the Walmington-on-Sea Local Defence Volunteers."

"Hmmm." said Rogerson, thoughtfully. "I'm bloody surprised any of those chaps survived. Jerry came in right on top of them. All the way from Battle right round to Herne Bay."

He saw Bentine wince slightly, and sympathised. Folkestone, once a haven for well-to-do retirees, with its glowing white hotels and its neat genteel streets, and the long, long, glorious made-for-boy-cyclists Sandgate Hill, was now ruins, its harbour full of rubble and sunken Jerry ships caught by the Royal Navy as they tried to flee. He'd freewheeled down Sandgate Hill as a boy, and knowing it was no more was a pang.

"I'll get Sergeant Wilson, sir" said the boy, mastering himself. He went to the door and called into the waiting room.

A moment or two later, a painfully thin grey-haired sergeant in battered and threadbare Army uniform marched in. Well, it was an attempt at a march, but Rogerson judged that even if the man hadn't been approaching sixty, and exhausted by a battle, captivity and the privations of a PoW camp, it would still have been a louche, half-hearted, civilian-at-heart, sort of a march.

Wilson threw up a languid salute. Rogerson returned it with a touch to his cap-brim.

"Sergeant Arthur Wilson, sir. Home Guard battalion of the Royal West Kent Regiment. Acting commanding officer of the Walmington-on-Sea platoon."

The elderly sergeant swayed slightly as he saluted. Bentine raised an eyebrow and glanced towards a chair. Rogerson nodded.

"Please be seated, sergeant." he said, kindly. Wilson took the chair gratefully.

Rogerson nodded.

"Please be absolutely assured you are not under arrest, sergeant. I've read your written record – absolutely commendable – and I can safely say that no disciplinary action nor censure applies to any of your actions over the past five months. Everyone who has passed through this office with cause to mention your name has been, with few exceptions, complimentary and positive. In fact, on the strength of the exemplary performance and witness testimonies to your actions since Eagle Day, you may well be recommended for promotion and a decoration."

Colonel Rogerson let this sink in, assessing the dark, exhausted, circles around the man's eyes.

_He's been through hell and back, poor chap. And at an age where most fighting soldiers are either dead or long since retired. _

"This meeting is just a military formality. Your unit went into action. It was dispersed and partially destroyed. As is mandatory with all those who at some point felt they had no option other than to surrender and who have spent time in enemy captivity, we have to have this debriefing session on your liberation from the prison camp. I'm convinced no blame or censure attaches to you, but unfortunately this cannot easily be said of others. Therefore I wish to know of any cases of cowardice, of refusal to obey legally constituted orders, of active collusion and collaboration with the Germans. Don't think of this as running to Teacher with tales outside of school: there are good men who suffered and died because of collaboration with Jerry, or from damned self-serving spivs looking to turn a profit out of the occupation."

Rogerson noted a flicker of reaction to the comment about elf-serving spivs and black marketeers.

_Good. I can bring up Private Walker later, _ he thought.

"And of course the other thing, as we have found it's easier to talk about, are any atrocities or breaches of the Geneva conventions carried out by Jerry. It's hard to acknowledge that some of our own chaps behaved badly (_there's that flicker again), _but we have no illusions about Jerry. If you can identify times, places, events and if possible the Jerry unit involved, we can cross-reference against the prisoners we hold – did you know we have twenty-five thousand in the bag? – and we can tell the world about it. And make no mistake, sergeant, the world wants to listen! I remember Belgium in May last year. The same Waffen-SS unit Hitler sent over in his first wave. The bloody _Totenkopf"_

Rogerson spat out the word with contempt.

"Did you know they rounded up a hundred British prisoners from the Norfolks and machine-gunned them in a field, rather than slow down their advance by taking prisoners? A rat called Mohnke was responsible…"

"Did you say _Mohnke_?" the sergeant interrupted him. "I met him. Nasty piece of work!"

Describe him."

"Long. Lean. Underweight. Like a walking corpse or Nosferatu the vampire…"

The Sergeant broke off.

"Take your time, old man." Colonel Rogerson said, gently.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir. I was remembering a time when Frank, my….. nephew… badgered me to go and see the film when it was on at the Walmington Tiffany Cinema."

The Segeant shook his head. "The old silent horror movie _Nosferatu the Vampire. _ Poor Frank had nightmares for a week afterwards. His mother wasn't pleased with me at all. But he really ought to have been more frightened of the _real_ Nosferatu that came out of the heart of Germany."

"What happened?"

"Mohnke took him prisoner on the Tunbridge Road near to Godfrey's Cottage. That is, a defensive point Captain Mainwaring set up at the crossroads, just north of Walmington. I remember this tall thin German officer with sunken cheeks and maniacal staring eyes, and a long curved scar on his right cheek. You know, you never forget a face like that. I remember the skull badge they wore. SS-Totenkopf. The Death's Head, isn't it?"

"Yes. That's Mohnke. The scar on the face clinches it."

Wilson nodded.

"He was furious a mere _boy_ had held up the advance and written off three of his tanks and blocked the road to the Germans. In a way, it was quite funny, really. A wrecked tank is a jolly good roadblock, and thanks to Frank….Private Pike – there were three of them. And down on the coast, more and more German vehicles were unloading on the beaches with nowhere to go to, because the only road inland had been blocked. . That was my Frank… Private Pike, that is."

Then Wilson frowned and looked vaguely disapproving. "The German officer shot him. There and then, in the road. But Frank wasn't scared. He saw it all as a big adventure, right up until the very end."

Wilson closed his eyes and blinked the bad memory away.

"I believe I've given you a war crime, colonel. Now do you mind awfully if I start from the beginning?"

1 **(1) **After the war, Goon Show comedian Michael Bentine, whose early war years were ones of being deported from his lifelong home in Folkestone as an unreliable alien, followed by repeated attempts to prove his loyalty and enlist in the British forces in any capacity. He finished the war as an RAF intelligence officer.


	2. The beginning

**After the Eagle landed: a "Dad's Army" what-if?**

_**Sunday, September 15**__**th**__**, 1940. **_

The crowd thronging the platform at Walmington-on-Sea's railway station were meant to be there for a morale-boosting demonstration of Britain's ability to resist the threatened German invasion. All the local civic dignitaries were there to witness the awe-inspiring arrival of one of the most potent weapons to be deployed by Southern Command in thwarting Jerry's imminent attack on the South Coast.

Instead, their wait had been a long depressing one, punctuated by the depressing sight of the condensation trails in the sky and the distant roar of wave after wave of Jerry bombers heading almost due North, towards London.

"They must run out of planes _soon_!." Captain George Mainwaring exploded, punching one gloved fist into the palm of the other in an expression of mute rage and angry impotence at not being able to do anything about this violation of his skies.

In appearance a small fat pompous man with an angry moustache, Mainwaring, when he radiated this sort of helpless rage, had a lot in common with an elderly bulldog. An elderly bulldog that had been living a bit too well with not nearly enough healthy exercise, but one that could still bite down hard at any enemy who came within reach of his jaws. Normally the town's bank manager, and normally to be seen in a sober pinstripe suit and matching bowler, today he was dressed in the nondescript combat fatigues of a British army captain. A holstered Webley pistol hung at his belt and a swagger stick was tucked under his right arm, but he wore no other weapons.

"It's true I've never seen them put so many up on one day." agreed Sergeant Arthur Wilson. "Although they came pretty close to it in August. I wonder what they're bombing?"

"London, of course!" snapped Mainwaring. "It's a positive bloody disgrace!"

"That ridiculous little man Hodges is besides himself" mused Wilson. "There's absolutely nothing his men can do apart from observe and phone reports in to their HQ. But he's going absolutely beserk!"

He nodded towards the town's chief Air Raids Precautions man, who was practically leaping up and down in rage and giving his men a hard time.

"To be fair to Hodges, he may be a jumped-up greengrocer with an exaggerated sense of his own importance, but he must be feeling the same as I do, as we all do, inside. You just feel so…. _powerless!_ – inside at it all. All this bombing the past two months has been like the death of a thousand cuts. You just wish Hitler would invade, so we can get it all over with, one way or the other."

_Look, Uncle Arthur, look!" _

"Yes, what is it, Frank?" replied Wilson, testily. "Oh, I _say_…"

One of the condensation trails, high above, had ceased to be a steady line and was now describing a wide curving arc down and to the West, towards Hastings and Brighton. Two or three smaller arcs were chasing and pursuing and converging on it.

"Now there's a Jerry who won't be home for sausage and sauerkraut tonight!" Mainwaring said, exultantly

"He's going to be a real sour Kraut! I say, Uncle Arthur, did you get the joke? That German bomber's being shot down by the RAF, so I said they must be feeling like…"

"Yes, yes, Frank, very good. Very good indeed."

"Stop jumping up and down like that, will you, Pike? You're meant to be stood at ease!" Mainwaring said, testily. Adding, in a low growl:

"Stupid boy."

Up in the sky, the con-trail suddenly disappeared. There was a cheer from the crowd.

"Of courrrse, it disnae mean the Brylcreems**(1)** got him, aye." said a rolling Scottish voice. "Those condensation trails dinnae happen below eighteen thousand feet, where the air's thicker and warrrmer. Alll it means is that the Jerry pilot's descending."

"Frazer…"

"I'm sure there have been a lot of false claims of Jerry kills brought about by people not understanding what they are seeing. This explains why the Brylcreems claim to be shooting them down in hundreds but there never seem to be any less of them, aye."**(2)**

"Frazer, I'm warning you!" said Mainwaring. "Any more defeatist talk like that, and I'll…"

"_Oi! Napoleon!"_

Mainwaring turned, flushing slightly at a stifled laugh in the crowd at the hated nickname.

"Yes, Hodges. What is it now?"

"Are _any_ of your toy soldiers manning the anti-aircraft gun? And I've said it before and I'll say it again, I don't like this business of everyone crowded together like this while an air-raid's on! A Jerry could spot it and drop a bomb on us!"

"From twenty-two thousand feet? He'd need good eyesight" said Private Walker from a rear rank.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! We don't have an anti-aircraft gun, although Lord knows I've asked for some. We just have a single Lewis gun rigged up through the top of Corporal Jones' van. And the men know that I've given strict orders not to fire it. We don't have that much ammo and we need to conserve it against the day, not blaze away at a target we can't hit!"

"Do you know, sir, I've often thought that if Hitler were just an ordinary man in the street with his painting and decorating business, he'd be in the Austrian equivalent of the ARP." mused Sergeant Wilson. "He certainly has the temperament for it!"

"Now see _here_, you public-school nancy boy…"

"You _have_ been reporting back to Observer Corps HQ about the number, height, and direction of those Jerry planes?" Wilson asked, in an innocent voice. "It _is_ one of your duties…"

A spreading red flush rising from Hodges' neck told Wilson his barb had hit home.

"Well said, Wilson" agreed Mainwaring. "Now listen to me, Hodges. Those Jerry planes are attacking London. In the greater scale of things, our town is not important to them."

"Yet" said Frazer.

"So be off with you and do something useful.."

The sound of a distant train drawing nearer intruded on Mainwaring's speech. The crowd turned and looked up-track in expectation. And there it was. A large locomotive made more massive by a layer of armour-plating chugged into view. It was painted in bands of disruptive brown and green camouflage. The rake it pulled was distinctive, too: a massive flat-bed carriage had been built up to carry a massive naval gun, surplus to Royal Navy requirements. This was protected by armoured sheets on all sides, although it was plain to see the weapon had the ability to traverse through ninety degrees on both sides. Stabilising outriggers could be dropped to prevent the recoil tipping the train over on its sides. Behind the gun, it towed a sleeper carriage, evidently as a crew comfort, a goods van, and a guards' van at the rear.

As it stopped, a Royal Artillery sergeant stepped out, found Mainwaring, and saluted him.

"Sergeant Sugden, sir. Fifty-six Heavy Rail Regiment, Royal Artillery. I'm here to show you gentlemen round and explain what this here weapon is for."**(3)**

"Jolly good. Let's get started, then"

Sugden took several parties of civilian dignitaries around his command before the Home Guard got their chance.

The men were entranced and impressed by what they saw. Huge ready-access shells, almost as tall as a man, with propellent cases, stood for ready use near the gun. Private Pike could not resist going to the breech and making _whoosh! Bang! _Noises as if he were pretending to fire the weapon.

"Stop that, Pike! Stupid boy." said Mainwaring, automatically.

The sergeant smiled, indugently.

"We've got a lad like that, sir. Milligan. Enthusiastic. Odd, but enthusiastic."

Other artillerymen grinned appreciatively.

"So you can hit France from here?" Sergeant Wilson said, patting the breech.

"That's what we're here for, sir! Most of the time we've been trying to get Jerry's guns around Calais, but at this range it's like trying to get a needle out of a haystack by standing at the edge of the field and waving a magnet at it. Makes 'em keep their heads down, though."

"But we're fighting back!" Mainwaring said, exultantly. He slapped himself on the thigh, and rocked slightly with the impact. The sergeant beamed.

"And between the four guns of the battery, we made enough holes in one of his forward air bases to put it out of use for a while. We're proud of that!"

Sugden lowered his voice and leant forward.

"But these last couple of nights, sir, the target's been Calais and Boulougne harbours. Whichever one Bomber Command isn't hitting. Word is, Jerry's been building an invasion fleet and it's imminent. We've been trying to sink as many of his boats as we can."

Mainwaring and Wilson nodded.

"Have you ever been attacked by the Luftwaffe?"

"A time or two we've had a lone fighter shoot us up." He indicated a row of bullet-strikes. And a flight of Stukas tried to bomb us. The only thing to do then is to fire back – we've got machine guns set up for ack-ack over here, here and here. Oh, and signal the driver to make for the nearest tunnel, full-speed. Once we're in there, we're safe. "

"Dangerous job" mused Wilson.

"No, not really, sir. If we get a direct hit from a Jerry gun, then it'll be so quick we won't know if we're in Heaven or Aldershot. And while the Stuka's an accurate dive-bomber, it's not so accurate that it'll hit a moving target or a train track from a thousand feet. They just make a noise, that's all."

Mainwaring paused.

"Do you hear something, Wilson?"

Sergeant Wilson concentrated. "A bit muffled in here, sir, but I do believe it's the church bells. Awfully nice to hear them again, sir, on a Sunday."

"That's not the point, Wilson! That damn vicar is breaking the law! It was clearly said that church bells are _not_ to be rung for the duration of the emergency except as..a warning… if the Germans….are… invading…"

Mainwaring's voice tailed off as he realised what he was saying. Then he ran for the platform, Wilson unhurriedly following.

_Don't panic! Despatch rider for Captain Mainwaring! Orders only to speak to the Captain! Don't panic! Don't panic!_

Captain Mainwaring ran to where the young despatch rider from HQ had parked his motorbike.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Verbal instruction from the colonel, sir, for your ears only."

Mainwaring impatiently waved away the platoon to beyond listening range. The rider leant forward.

"Just one word, sir. _**Cromwell**_. That is all. Now if you'll excuse me…"

He saluted, and kicked the machine into life again, then was gone.

"Damn it, I left the secret codes list in the office. That's a codeword, I'm sure of it. But what does it _mean_?"

Sergeant Wilson cleared his throat.

"I took the liberty of memorising the codewords, sir. There weren't many of them. On issue of the codeword Cromwell, I'm afraid it means the invasion is imminent within the next forty-eight hours."

"And the church bells are ringing."

"It would appear so, sir. Shall I brief Sergeant Sugden? He'll need to know as he's in command of a very potent asset. If the Germans capture it, they'll point it at us.."

Frank Pike was still aboard the mobile gun, where a long thin gunner was reaching him how to traverse and fire the anti-aircraft turret.

"You steps on the hydraulic pedal _here_, and it swings right. Step on the pedal _here_, she swings left. Like a fairground ride, innit? Then you got twin three-oh-three machine guns. I'd be happy if you dint touch that, as that's your safety catch and she's fully armed."

Wilson nodded, knowing Pike had an odd affinity with weapons. He'd earned the platoon's first tommy-gun by virtue of being the best shot in the platoon: the gunnery range officer had been impressed. When you got past the overgrown schoolboy, there was more to Frank than met the eye. Jones had been bowled over by the recoil, Frazer had shot wildly adrift of the target, he and Mainwaring had merely achieved competence, Godfrey had refused to go near it, citing his non-combatant status as medical orderly, and Walker had somehow produced four more in a shady and complicated deal involving Jonesey's off-ration meat supply.

And as for the Blacker Bombard…

Wilson shook himself.

"Er… a word, please, Sergeant Sugden?"

Wilson had passed on the signal from HQ; Sugden, a long-time veteran, merely grunted and nodded.

"Won't it change things for you? When Jerry lands paratroops, and he will, you'll be a big target."

"Standing orders are to make for Dover with all speed and supplement the defences there. If we are attacked, let me show you…"

Sugden pointed to a wooden case underneath the gun trunnions.

"Fifty pounds of explosives. If we're in danger of being captured, we stick a fuse in and blow up the gun to deny it to Jerry. Then orders are for us to fight on as infantry and evade capture."

"Will you?"

Sugden laughed grimly.

"We're _artillerymen_, mr Wilson. Not infantry. When the gun goes, our job is over. If we can't run, we surrender. If I can manage it, I'm blowing up the ammo truck, too."

He paused. The same thought must have struck both sergeants simultaneously.

"Listen, I hear you Home Guard lads haven't got much in the way of ready-use ammo?"

Wilson sighed.

"Forty rounds of rifle ammo per man and six full magazines for the machine-gun. And the tommy-guns use it up like you won't believe. We're lucky, though. In July, when we started out, it was only five rounds per rifle."4**(4)**

Sugden nodded.

"Get some of your lads to the ammo truck. We can help you out here. I need enough for my machine-guns and maybe eighty rounds per man."

"That's awfully kind of you."

"If Jerry attacks we won't have _that _long a fight hand to hand. Better our spare ammo goes to somebody who can use it. Less to blow up, too, if a Stuka lands a bomb in it"

It took surprisingly little time to transfer the spare ammunition to the back of Jones' truck. By the time the Me-109's swept low over the seafront and Walmington town, the van was safely parked out of the line of fire.

Wilson remembered only a fast-moving shadow, a roar of engine and cannonfire, and men diving for cover. Cannon shells clanged off the side of the armoured train and ricocheted randomly, causing at least one casualty.

A second German fighter followed the first, its cannonshells ripping into the fabric of the station building.

_Hodges, of all people, was right, _Wilson reflected, wondering why he felt so calm.

Then there was answering fire. As the third fighter swooped over it was met by a twin stream of machine-gun fire from a turret on the armoured train. As the pilot strove for height, it juddered in the air and pieces were see to fall off it. Wilson fancied he could hear _I got him, uncle Arthur! _coming from the train. As the stricken aircraft limped away trailing white smoke, a fourth flew over into the growing hail of return fire. The pilot wisely decided not to stay around, but disappeared south, in the direction of France.

Then all was quiet. Wilson picked himself up and went to find out who had been hurt. It had been Private Sponge who had taken a cannonshell. Kneeling next to him, the sad-eyed Private Godfrey shook his head and closed his medical bag.

"PIKE!" Mainwaring roared. "Stupid boy! What did I say about careless fire? Needlessly expending ammunition?"

"But I got him, sir. I got the Jerry. Didn't you see?" protested Pike.

"Leave it, Frank. Yes, I saw too. Awfully well done. Sir, I'm afraid Private Sponge is dead. The German planes got him."

"Oh. Well. I see."

The wind taken out of his sails, Mainwaring removed his cap and looked down at the body of Sponge with something approaching respect and sadness.

"Frazer, you were a sailor. Let's say the German fleet has set sail. How long do you think it will take for him to get here?"

"No less than twelve hours, sir. And with that number of boats in the sea at the same time…well, we had to take care at Dunkirk too. Against collisions and against Jerry aircraft. It could be up to a day, sir. Twenty-four hours."

Mainwaring nodded.

"We have time to prepare our strategy, then. And above all to bury Sponge. Frazer, will you kindly?"

The old Scotsman, the town undertaker by profession, nodded.

There was nothing else to say.

And Sponge was the first.

* * *

"That's how it started, sir." Sergeant Wilson said, in the present, to Colonel Rogerson.

"Our first casualty, but by no means the last."

Rogerson nodded.

"You may be pleased to know that after he left Walmington station, Sergeant Sugden came under further air attack, but made it safely to Dover, where his rail gun joined in the battle and exchanged shells with German ships in the Channel. He survived the battle. He was in this room a few days ago and said you looked like a man with his head screwed on correctly. He wished he'd been able to take that boy with you, the one who shot down the German aircraft. We're recommending young Pike for a posthumous decoration, by the way. Not nearly enough for a VC, but certainly the MM."

"Thank you, sir. His mother may be consoled."

Rogerson looked at Wilson for signs of sarcasm or heavy irony, but saw nothing.

"And now we move on to the circumstances in which Captain Mainwaring decided Walmington was indefensible and elected to fight from… where was it now… Godfrey's Cottage. In your own time, Sergeant."

* * *

**(1) **Royal Air Force pilots, despite the genuine respect they got in the Battle, were thought of as flash and rather vain young men. They were known as the Brylcreem Boys, after a popular (but rationed) brand of hair styling oil.

**(2) **This is true. Derek Robinson devotes a chapter to explaining why British claims of German aircraft shot down were so hopelessly exaggerated, at the end of his novel about the RAF in 1940,** A Piece of Cake.**

**(3) **Really true. In June 1940 before even the fall of France, Germany directed all available long-range artillery to the Pas de Calais, so tat it might begin demoralising the British in the expected invasion area by shelling the south of England across the narrowest possible route. Even today on Dover harbour, there is a preserved propaganda banner captured from the Germans when the gun sites were over-run in 1944, boasting that the German guns together fired 7,000 shells at Kent over the four years. Folkestone and Dover both preserve churches destroyed not by the Luftwaffe but by long-range shelling. The British rail guns were a mobile response that retaliated against the Germans.

**(4) **In July 1940, comedian Spike Milligan recalls being in a forward position on a Sussex cliff-top with only five rounds for his rifle – all the Army could spare. Even then, when relieved, he had to pass the five rounds onto his relief. Supply was really that bad. Milligan did not serve on the armoured trains, but like many other artillerymen, valued them as a free taxi service to pubs and nightclubs all along the south coast and a guaranteed ticket back to his home barracks before midnight.


End file.
